


The Assassin

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Contract Killers, Gen, Mass Murders, Mentions of Past Rapes, Snipers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There will always be people who wish other people dead. It is a premise as old as the Bible story of Cain and Abel. And there will always be people willing to take on the job of making that happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Rogers

**Author's Note:**

> Much appreciation to Treon, for pre-reading and catching all the errors!

     The sniper was perched in the upper branches of a cotton tree in the thickly forested hill country of Sierra Leone in Africa. He was perfectly camouflaged to blend into the surrounding foliage, and had an unobstructed sight line to the alluvial riverbed more than 1000 yards away. He had been here for most of the morning awaiting his target. His handcrafted and lethal instrument of death lay loosely in his hands. Right now, he was simply using the telescopic lens to watch rail-thin men, and equally emaciated women with children on their backs, bend and sift through the silt and gravel. Every now and then, they would place small pebbles that could be potential rough diamonds into a sieve. When the time was right, the sniper would peer through this same scope to deliver a silent death. Those in the vicinity of the victim would never even hear the shot from this distance.

     His weapon was extremely efficient, and so technologically state-of-the-art that the assassin almost felt as if he were cheating. This rifle could automatically and precisely assess the variables of ambient air temperature, humidity, and wind drag resistance, then adjust the trajectory accordingly. Of course, it was just an inanimate object of blued steel, only capable of obeying a master. However, today, the sniper would be that master when it was time to put gentle pressure on the trigger.

     Patience is a virtue, they say, and the sniper could claim that he was, indeed, very virtuous because it took more than four hours before Ishmael Yabu, a Revolutionary United Front warlord, showed up. His ‘sobel,’ a rebel in Yabu’s corrupt army, had driven him here from Freetown, the capital, to inspect the progress of his blood diamond enterprise. Yabu used the money from the sale of these conflict diamonds to finance the continuing insurgency in the war zone, but a great percentage of the profits went into the man’s own pocket.

     Yabu had been around for quite awhile, having gained a toehold in 1991 when the nine-year civil war erupted in Sierra Leone. He had ruthlessly moved up the ladder to solidify his uncontested position in the diamond-rich western areas of the country through brutality and fear. Everyone knew, or had heard, of his army’s terrorizing tactics of hacking off the hands, arms, or feet of civilian villagers, as well as the abduction and raping of innocent women and children.

     The sniper had seen a multitude of close-up photos of the man, so he recognized him immediately when he exited the car. As the guerrilla leader, nattily dressed in a pinstriped suit, arrogantly strode around the river’s edge like the cock of the walk, none of the villagers dared look up because no one wanted to draw his attention. If anything, they stooped even lower and avoided eye contact at all costs. The sniper let his breath out gradually. His heartbeat was slow and steady, and the movement of his fingers unhurried as he firmly gripped the underside of the rifle with one hand, and caressed the trigger with the index finger of the other.

     The assassin started the count in his mind as the lethal projectile was sent on its way. Within seconds, Yabu’s head exploded like a watermelon, and those nearest him found themselves frozen in unfathomable shock. It seemed incongruous that unaware villagers continued to pan for little carbon nuggets in the mud in the midst of a murder. Of course, that was understandable because there had been no rifle crack or telltale muzzle flash—things had remained as silent as a tomb.

     Very calmly, the weapon and its tripod were disassembled and placed into a knapsack. The sniper climbed down from the tree with the agility of a circus acrobat, and began his trek overland to a nearby clearing on a plateau. He hoisted himself up into the waiting Sikorsky helicopter and powered up the agile whirlybird. As the nearby brush and trees quaked under the downwash from the rotors, Neal Caffrey set a northeasterly course and was on his way.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Neal strode up a dusty, noisy backstreet in Rabat, a coastal city in Morocco. He found the little hole-in-the-wall café quite easily, and was immediately assailed by a bouquet of herbal aromas as he stepped inside the dim interior. Mozzie, already seated, was one of the few patrons, and he seemed to be savoring a plate of tagine, a highly spiced Moroccan stew, that was in front of him. Neal dropped into a seat across from his partner and carefully stowed his backpack underneath his chair. An olive-skinned man in a djellba immediately approached, and Neal gave his order for a bowl of couscous and strong Moroccan coffee.

     “You should really try the mint tea, mon frère,” Mozzie cajoled. “It’s the national drink around here and actually quite refreshing.”

     “Reminds me of goat pee,” Neal wrinkled his nose. “I’ll stick with my usual vice.”

     After the steaming coffee arrived, Neal asked, “Did the transfer come through?”

     “It did,” Mozzie informed him. “Five million dollars was deposited for a nanosecond into a Swiss bank before I broke it up and whisked smaller packets on their way to the beautiful blue Caribbean.”

     “Were you able to get a handle on where it may have come from, Moz? I’m thinking maybe a member of the World Federation of Diamond Bourses, a rival warlord, or even an anxious executive at DeBeers.”

     “What does it matter, Neal? Thanks to you, a really wicked and evil guy is no more, and Mr. Rogers is five million dollars richer.”

     Perhaps only Neal appreciated the twisted irony of his “Mr. Rogers” sobriquet. When he had been a young boy growing up in St. Louis, “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was a staple for bored children on Public Broadcasting Television. Mr. Rogers, himself, was a benign, soft-spoken man who always wore a sweater, and told children stories about his make-believe neighborhood utilizing puppets and stuffed toys. He was kind and gentle, and, for one hour each afternoon, he took the place of a father figure in a lonely kid’s life.

     As Neal got older, Mr. Rogers no longer filled the void. Neither did school, nor sports, nor his mother. He found himself wanting to be just like his dead father, a cop killed in the line of duty. So, guns became Neal’s passion. He would skip school to head over to a nearby firing range and practice for hours on end until he managed to master accuracy at varying distances. As fate would have it, he frequently ran into a former military soldier, now retired, who had been a crack sniper during “Operation Desert Storm.” The man saw promise in this young kid, and began to introduce him to the intricacies of the rifle. Neal was a quick study, and soon was just as good as his mentor.

     As Neal entered his senior year of high school, the retired soldier urged him to enlist in the Army after graduation.

     “You have a knack for this, Neal—a really sharp eye. You’re already pretty good at what you can do, but the Army can make you even better,” he advised.

     What could not make Neal better, however, was hearing the truth negating the lie that his mother had perpetrated throughout his life. His father had not been a hero. Hell, he hadn’t even been a good person, but rather an evil one. Neal decided to give up his hero-worship once and for all and get as far away as possible. His search for a new life took him to New York where his morality took a holiday as he conned and schemed to support himself. After all, he reasoned, I’m tainted like my father, so why not be wicked? It goes with the territory!

     Just as meeting the former sniper had been an auspicious event in his life, running into Mozzie was just as much of a game changer for Neal. As the two became acquainted, Mozzie saw the potential in Neal’s skill with guns as well as with a deck of cards. And, it just so happened that Mozzie was a technological guru who knew the ins and outs on parts of the Web that normal people never saw.

     After convincing his new protégé to attempt a new career, he initially floated out feelers, actually referencing another bit of bygone nostalgia of his own. He posted a terse notice on an underground bulletin board that simply said, “Have Gun-Will Travel.” Neal didn’t get the significance at first until Mozzie told him about a 1950’s western series that aired on television by that name. The main character, who called himself “Paladin,” was a mercenary for hire.

     Surprisingly, a slew of requests hit the email account that Mozzie had set up expressly for this purpose. Neal worried about that, but the bald man assured him that he continually rotated the servers around the world, bouncing off this satellite or that one, so that it could never be traced back to them. The requests were varied, from people who had a grudge against someone, to others who had a more clandestine agenda.

     Neal decided that if he was going to embrace this dangerous endeavor, he was going to have to set his own guidelines. Primarily, it was a non-negotiable tenet that he would never meet anyone face to face. His identity must always remain a secret, with all details being addressed in a separate, untraceable instant messaging site. Everything would always be conducted over the anonymous Web, from the initial request, to Neal’s possible acceptance of the assignment. And, he would not accept an assignment until he did his own due diligence. That was where Mozzie’s wizardry came in handy. The talented little man could ferret out every detail about the prey.

     Neal also flatly refused to take on a job involving women or children—again non-negotiable! He would also not agree to terminate someone if they seemed like an upstanding individual who was, unfortunately, an inconvenience to someone else. Neal had to have a legitimate, or at least a plausible reason, to wipe a human being off the face of the earth.

     Then a fee was determined according to the amount of preparation that was necessary to do the job, or an amount that was in sync with the victim’s worth. That money did not have to be paid upfront, but payment, in full, was expected immediately after the deed was done. If all agreed to those terms, then Neal would promise to do the job within three months. That was his outer timeframe. If it did not suit the customer, then so be it—they could find somebody else to do their wet work.

     Neal rejected many more jobs than he took, but he was never without a queue of patrons who were willing to wait their turn. He and Moz were becoming quite wealthy as he traveled the world with different passports and various identities. He had been in the arid deserts of Kabul lying in wait to take out a high-ranking member of ISIS with another fatal shot to the head. Neal suspected that the CIA might have been behind that request when they couldn’t figure out where to direct their next drone.

     Kazakhstan had been a horrendous undertaking. It had taken Neal weeks before he got close enough to a conniving prime minister who desired the Presidency for himself, and who had instigated unrest and bloodshed to unseat the despot already in power. It was hard to tell which man was more a spawn of Satan—the upstart or the incumbent. However, Neal suspected the current regime had sent in that request, and he purposely named an exorbitant fee that was readily accepted.

     Over time, Neal had taken out other jihadists, traitors selling secrets to North Korea, Russian mobsters involved in human trafficking, members of drug syndicates, and pedophiles who got off on technicalities. Sometimes, Neal idly wondered where the requests originated, and suspected it was probably a myriad of players that ran the gamut from government agencies, disgruntled law enforcement officials, nefarious competitive factions, all the way to family members who simply wanted justice meted out to the defilers of their loved ones. The list seemed never-ending, and the cash kept rolling in.

     Patrons had learned to pay up immediately what was due. At first, a few brash idiots had tried to stiff Neal and Mozzie, and those misguided people became a cautionary tale. Mozzie was like a dog with a bone, and he would not stop until he had figured out their identities. Then Neal took care of the rest. In time, Mr. Rogers was thought of in terms of fear as well as respect. The caveat was—do not ever fuck with him because it just might backfire on you.

     A case in point was a request that Neal knew had to have come from Washington DC. It seemed that there was a certain Midwestern senator who had a very bad habit of cornering young, male Senate pages in the bathroom and brutally sodomizing them against their will. All of the Senator’s cronies in his party knew of his nasty predilection, and covered it up by paying off the unfortunate young men to keep quiet. The results were a mixed bag. Some victims actually decided that the political life, if that was what it involved, was no longer for them, and left to return home. Others took the money, stayed in politics, and kept the vile secret to themselves. However, one foolhardy soul took the money, left the Senate floor, but also cashed in by offering to blow the whistle in an interview for a notorious scandal sheet.

     The request to Mr. Rogers came with a plea for urgency. This “tell-all” simply could not happen, and the young former page had to be eliminated. Neal was told to name his price because the sky was the limit. Actually, Neal did not charge the petitioner or petitioners a dime. He simply went for a jog in Rock Creek Park at exactly the same time that this particularly depraved Senator was also doing his morning run. As Neal passed the man on an isolated part of the trail, he put three holes in the man’s heart with a silenced Glock. Usually, Neal preferred the safe distance and anonymity that a sniper rifle afforded him. But, this struck a chord in his soul. While setting up a job on the other side of the globe, Neal had once been imprisoned and raped in a Ukrainian jail. The deed could not be undone, but Neal learned to live with the shame only after he had managed to obtain a knife and gut the rapist from pubis to sternum.

PS: The Senator’s ugly story was told on schedule, and the sordid details were actually picked up with relish by the Washington Post. It made for some agile tap-dancing during the funeral memorial.


	2. The New Assignment

     The new email had come in and immediately leap-frogged to the top of Mr. Rogers’ death list for two reasons. The first was the need for haste—an actual three-week window. The second reason was the whopping promise of 20 million dollars. A name was included in the petition for extermination—Peter Burke, head of the White Collar Division of the FBI in New York City.

     Neal was intrigued. An FBI agent was a new twist. Just what was this suit’s agenda that had gotten him on somebody’s bad side? It must be really big because the promised fee was the largest one ever offered to Mr. Rogers. Of course, this became a challenge to figure out, but Mozzie proved up to the task.

     “Okay, mon frère, here’s how it all shakes out. Peter Burke is a friggin’ boy scout. His hat is so white and his badge so shiny that they blind my eyes,” Mozzie deadpanned.

     “He and his little band of merry men were investigating an interesting fellow by the name of Andreas Karalis. He’s a Greek national and a gazzillionaire who practically owns the island of Kos in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Turkey. Once upon a time, Karalis made his mega-moola in shipping, and now may even be involved in arms trafficking. I can’t pin that fact down one way or the other yet.

     For most of the year, the man lives like a king in an old Byzantine fortress on Kos. However, he turned up in New York a few months ago, and the FBI glommed onto the fact that he engineered the theft of some Greek antiquities, and was in the process of smuggling them out of the country aboard his yacht. The FBI detained and arrested him, and during his arraignment, his passport had to be surrendered while he awaits his trial that is due to start in three weeks.”

     “Now for the really interesting part,” Mozzie continued. “While tearing Karalis’ life apart, Burke heard some ugly rumors that he can’t prove yet, but he’s definitely on the scent. The tiny island of Kos has seen a tremendous influx of political refugees from Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan in the last year. The beautiful little speck of paradise with a mild climate and pristine beaches has suddenly become inundated with tent cities as over 4,000 men, women, and children have managed to make their way ashore for political asylum. They are living in squalid conditions as they wait to be documented before continuing their journey onward to the Greek mainland and beyond. No food, water, or toilet facilities have been provided to those waiting to be documented, a process that drags on for weeks. It was a powder keg waiting to explode.

     According to my sources, Karalis has the local police on his payroll. Upon his orders, a large band of unknown men was sent in to ‘clean up the problem.’ As a result, hundreds of refugees were slaughtered with clubs, bats, knives, and automatic weapons. Afterwards, their bodies were dragged away and incinerated, and then their ashes tossed into the sea.

     Now Karalis is stuck here while he awaits his trial for theft. He has some slick lawyers who will claim that Burke’s search was illegal because certain precise things were not documented in the warrant. But, in the meantime, if Burke manages to prove the Greek’s part in the mass extermination of those refugees, even if Karalis is found not guilty of the antiquities smuggling, he most certainly will find himself on his way to The International Criminals Court at the Hague.”

     Neal was thoughtful. “Is this Burke really that smart and determined, and is he working in tandem with Interpol? Find out everything that you can about him, Moz, and in the meantime, please decline the generous offer that’s currently on the table.”

     “It’s a lot of money, Neal,” Mozzie reminded the younger man.

     When Neal just looked at his partner with wide eyes, the contrite man responded.

     “I know, I know—innocent women and children were slaughtered on Karalis’ orders. I get it—this is not what we do no matter how lucrative,” Mozzie sighed.

     “Do you even realize, Neal, what a complex moral code that you have for a stone-cold hitman? I swear—you are chock-full of contradictions, a real dichotomy that some shrink could use as a basis for a page-turning thesis in a medical journal!  However, to keep you happy, I’ll turn Burke’s life inside out, and then I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version.”

     “Thanks, Moz,” was Neal’s distracted response.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later in the week, Mozzie had managed to amass a very extensive profile.

     “Peter Burke is 46 years old. He is smart and intuitive, and apparently capable of making some extraordinary intellectual leaps while on the job. He was been with the FBI for seventeen years, and has a stellar record with an impressive closure rate. He heads his own team, and his underlings respect him. He plays by the rules, has no skeletons in his closet, cannot be tempted, and is a heterosexual man who has been married to the same woman for the last ten years. His wife runs her own business, Burke Premier Events, a type of party planning service for upscale occasions. The couple has no children, although I uncovered some old bills that were paid to an infertility specialist, so they may have been trying to conceive, and it just never happened. They do have a dog, a yellow Lab, named Satchmo. They seem to be truly in love, with no history of infidelity, no bad habits, and no addictions. Burke’s only vices seem to be domestic beer on the weekends and the Yankees.

     As yet, Burke is still probing in the dark about the refugee mass murder, and the local authorities in Greece are stonewalling his efforts. With nothing solid, he has not contacted Interpol. The only link that he has in Greece is some lawyer that he and his wife met briefly while they were on their honeymoon in Santorini. I doubt that he’s going to get very far in his investigation, but apparently Karalis isn’t willing to take any chances.”

     Neal was thoughtful for a minute.

     “I want to meet this paragon of law enforcement,” he finally concluded.

     “Why would you want to do that?” Mozzie asked in bewilderment.

     “Maybe,” Neal drawled, “I just want to see what an honest, good cop looks like in the flesh.”

     “Damn it, Neal,” Mozzie whined. “Are we having Daddy issues going on here?”

     Neal gave his partner an indecipherable look. “What are you saying, Moz?”

     “Oh, come on, Neal,” Mozzie smirked, “this is me you’re talking to right now. I researched your profile before I ever took you on as a kid, so I know all about your hang-ups with your father. Stay far away from this Burke thing. Elliott Ness’s days are numbered because it is only a matter of time before another gunslinger rolls into town. You’ll want to avoid the fallout when that goes down.”

     “C’mon, Moz, indulge me ‘cause you love me,” Neal wheedled.

     Mozzie’s face took on the wretched look of a long-suffering martyr, but he knew that, in the end, he would make it happen.

~~~~~~~~~~

     At the end of the week, Mozzie strolled into Neal’s apartment with a sad representation of a German Shepherd on a leash. The animal looked haggard and worn. He had a slight limp, old scars were visible on his hindquarters, and half of one ear was missing.

     “Who’s your new friend?” Neal asked as he stared into the animal’s soft liquid brown eyes.

     “This is ‘Bruce,’ and he is going to be your prop for this ridiculous undertaking that you are hell-bent on pursuing,” Mozzie said with grudging acquiescence. 

     “Bruce? Who names a German Shepherd _Bruce_?” Neal commented. “Shouldn’t dogs like him have more intimidating names like ‘Rex’ or ‘Thor’?”

     “Don’t be so judgmental, Neal. It is what it is, and right now we have to go with the flow,” Mozzie chastised.

     Neal ignored the reprimand. “Well, I have to say that old ‘Bruce’ looks as if he has been through a war.”

     “Actually, mon frère, you are entirely accurate in your observation. Bruce has been through a war—in Kandahar, to be precise. He was some kind of ordnance dog, like a bomb-sniffer, I guess. Unfortunately, his handler was killed in action, and Bruce was returned home to recuperate from his own wounds. The Marines offered him to the slain soldier’s family, but they didn’t want him. They said that seeing him just kept reminding them of their loss. So, this poor furry veteran went to a shelter. Of course, with his less than attractive appearance, no one wanted to adopt him until a friend of mine felt pity for the animal and took him home. So, Bruce is on loan to us for our little scheme to get close to Peter Burke.”

     Neal couldn’t help himself. Staring into those limpid, world-weary eyes was mesmerizing, but he still had a question.

    “Just how does Bruce fit into that scenario?”

     “Well,” Mozzie patiently explained, “because I am such a good friend, I did more research, and now know that Mr. and Mrs. Suit are quite predictable and bourgeois on weekends. Every Saturday, they take their dog to the park, and then have a silly little picnic on the grass. Maybe they read poetry to each other, for all I know,” he shuddered.

     “Anyway,” Mozzie continued, “the Burkes are dog people, and old Bruce is your ticket to get close to them. You’re clever and innovative and can make it happen, if you are really serious about this preposterous notion of yours.”

     With that last remark, Mozzie flipped a Frisbee in Neal’s direction and stomped to the door while tossing an “au revoir” over his shoulder.

     Neal looked at Bruce and asked, “You up for this, Buddy?”

     The dog’s only response was to lift his one good ear and yawn.

~~~~~~~~~~

     With a whole lot of skepticism, Neal loaded Bruce into the shotgun seat of his Audi. He had never had a dog growing up, and was amazed at how effortlessly dogs managed to shed their coats. His Henley and jeans were covered in light brown hair by the time they got situated. Bruce just settled in placidly for the ride and started to snore. He wasn’t up for a lot of scintillating conversation.

     It was easy to locate the pleasant little park nestled along the banks of the Hudson. People were taking advantage of the beautiful spring day, and were out doing their thing. Neal parked the car and went around to the passenger side to clip the leash once again to Bruce’s collar. With a resigned sigh, the dog jumped down and obediently heeled to Neal’s side. They leisurely walked to a small knoll with trees, and Bruce stopped when Neal stopped, looking up at him with a question in his doggie eyes.

     “Maybe you might want to lift your leg or something,” Neal suggested. “You’ll need to be focused for this mission, and it wouldn’t be good for you to get distracted by a sudden call of nature.”

    Bruce seemed to give Neal a condescending look and sat down beside his left foot.

     “Well, okay, then,” Neal capitulated, “no marking of the territory for you. So let’s move on to some reconnaissance.”

     After a slow circle, Neal spied the Burkes just where Mozzie had said they would be. A picnic hamper sat atop a plaid blanket, and Mrs. Burke seemed to be relaxing and taking in the scene while her husband was stretched out on his back beside her with an arm across his eyes. The Labrador Retriever was right there with them, dozing between the couple. Neal got within fifteen yards of them and leaned down to stroke Bruce’s neck as he unclipped the leash and whispered in the dog’s good ear.

     “Okay, Rin Tin Tin, it’s time for your close-up.”

     He then took the Frisbee into his hand and lofted it high, intentionally making it arc and sail towards the tranquil little garden party.

     “Fetch!” Neal exhorted his canine accomplice.

     Bruce didn’t move a muscle. He simply looked up at this overbearing human with an expression that clearly said, “Seriously? You actually expect me to run after that thing?”

     Neal was now glaring. “Bruce, you are such a dork!”

     During this little interplay between man and uncooperative beast, the Burkes’ dog was much more willing to be complicit in the scheme. He saw the Frisbee headed in his vicinity and immediately bounded after it, leaping effortlessly and capturing it in his mouth. He had startled Peter Burke with his sudden lunge, and the FBI agent watched his dog snag the disc and trot back happily to his side and drop it on the ground. The dog then leaned down with his hind end in the air and his tongue lolling, eagerly awaiting another toss. Peter and Elizabeth looked around and saw a young man approaching them with a haggard, limping dog trudging slowly by his side.

     “Sorry, guys,” the handsome stranger apologized, “that thing sort of got away from me when I threw it.”

     “Not a problem,” Peter Burke responded as he stood up and handed back the Frisbee now slick with dog saliva.

     “I thought Bruce might want to get a little exercise, but apparently I misread that situation,” Neal replied after giving his dog a sardonic look.

     “Your dog’s name is Bruce?” Elizabeth asked politely.

     “Yeah,” Neal admitted with an embarrassed shrug, “although I’m not the one who named him that. Actually, he’s a rescue animal that I just got from the shelter, and we’re still getting to know one another.”

     The Burkes’ dog was certainly getting to know Bruce. He had initiated the happy little rituals that were considered proper etiquette in a canine’s domain—much snuffling and smelling and tail wagging. Bruce just looked bored as if this ridiculous butt-sniffing thing was so beneath his station in life.

     “Well, Bruce certainly seems …..um, docile,” Elizabeth remarked.

     “That’s one way of putting it,” Neal agreed. “Since you now know my dog’s name, perhaps I should introduce myself—Nick Halden. Pleased to make your acquaintance under some very embarrassing circumstances.”

     Elizabeth smiled and introduced herself as Peter also stepped forward and extended his hand. “Peter Burke. Nice to meet you, Nick.”

     “Your dog looks like he’s had some injuries along the way,” Peter noted. “Do you know how he got those scars?”

     “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth,” Neal lied. “The people at the shelter were kind of vague regarding his history. He doesn’t act as if he’s in pain, though. He just seems to want to avoid any overexertion,” Neal added tactfully.

     Elizabeth was now petting Bruce, and the animal was staring up at her wistfully with love in his eyes. This dog apparently knew how to work his audience, Neal thought to himself. There might be hope for him yet.

     “I have some jerky treats in my bag for Satchmo—that’s our dog. May I give Bruce one?”

     “Yeah—sure,” Neal quickly agreed as he dropped down to his knees to be more on eye level with Elizabeth. Peter had sat down as well, and there was a lull in the conversation as three humans watched one appreciative German Shepherd display impeccable manners by daintily taking the treat from Elizabeth’s fingers.

     “He’ll probably be thirsty after that,” she predicted. “Let me pour him a little water. We always bring a bowl for Satchmo.”

     “Oh, I’m sorry,” Elizabeth suddenly added. “Would you like a bottle of water or maybe some iced tea? We have plenty. I even have some extra sandwiches in the cooler. There’s chicken salad and deviled ham,” she concluded with a slight wrinkling of her nose.

     Neal awarded her a charming smile. “You are very gracious, Elizabeth. A bottle of water would taste great right now.”


	3. An Unlikely Hero

     Neal stayed right there on the Burkes’ blanket for almost two hours. Initially, he spun them a yarn about being fairly new to the city and working at odd jobs, like messengering and bartending, until he could save enough for college tuition. He claimed that he was pursuing an advanced degree in art history. They seemed to buy it, and were forthcoming with their own biographies.

     Of course, Neal already knew their histories, but he listened attentively, asking the expected appropriate questions along the way. It was obvious that they loved and respected each other. They had that little vibe going where they seemed to be able to read each other’s thoughts and finish each other’s sentences. They exchanged loving looks and soft touches, and it all seemed genuine to Neal’s discerning eye.

     It amazed the jaded assassin that this kind of lasting relationship really existed in today’s society where everything seemed so tenuous and transitory. In the new normal, contemporary people seemed to embrace the mindset of just throwing up their hands and walking away when they hit a rough patch. Neal’s own father was a case in point. He had disappeared after screwing up, and had never looked back. It didn’t seem to bother him that he had left a wife and son to fend for themselves.

     Neal made an effort to tear his mind away from those hurtful, unpleasant memories from the past so that he could focus on the present.

     “So, Peter, what’s it like being an FBI agent? It must be pretty dangerous investigating total bad guys,” Neal asked with just the right amount of awe in his voice.

     Peter smiled wryly. “I work in the White Collar Division of the FBI, Nick. Most of my investigations involve mortgage fraud, pyramid schemes, embezzlements, illegal lotteries—really and truly mind-numbing stuff.”

     “So, you never have to draw your weapon when you arrest people?” Neal asked.

     Peter glanced in Elizabeth’s direction briefly before he answered. “I have on occasion, but I always have back-up.”

     Even though Neal had handed Burke a perfect opportunity to boast and expound on his exploits of great daring, that had not happened. Neal got it. Peter was trying to shield his wife and not cause her worry, and Neal was touched by the man’s sensitivity. Maybe Burke really was a Boy Scout.

     Finally, the afternoon was almost over, and Neal helped Elizabeth pack up the picnic basket while her hubby folded the blanket. Neal prodded Bruce awake, and the dog let out a disgruntled sigh as he laboriously hoisted himself to his feet. Neal clipped on his leash, and Peter hooked up Satchmo before the three people and two dogs meandered slowly down the hill towards the parking lot.

     They were still making idle small talk when Neal felt a fierce tug on Bruce’s tether. Suddenly, the German Shepherd startled everyone by surging ahead with a determined burst of speed that belied his limp. Neal had lost his grip on the leash that now trailed behind the racing dog, who slid to an abrupt stop at the parking lot and flopped down on his stomach approximately ten feet from a black Ford Taurus parked at the curb.

     “Bruce,” Neal yelled as he pursued the runaway, “come back here!”

     When he reached the animal, he hurriedly grabbed the leash and tried to pull the dog to his feet. It just wasn’t happening. Bruce paid no attention to an irritated Neal because he was totally focused on the vehicle in front of him. Every muscle and sinew was taunt and quivering, and one and a half ears were alert and pitched forward. He looked like a miniature version of the sphinx, and it gave Neal goosebumps because now Mozzie’s words drifted back to the assassin.

     _“He was some kind of ordnance dog with the Marines—maybe a bomb sniffer, or something.”_

     Neal slowly backed up and began to pull Peter and Elizabeth away from the intense dog and the now suspect vehicle.

     “Is that black Taurus yours, Peter?”

     Peter seemed to sense Neal’s apprehension. “Yeah, Nick. What’s going on?”

     “I may be wrong, Peter, but I think that Bruce is alerting us to some kind of explosive device that may be in or under your car. I heard that he may have been trained to do that by the Marines when he was in the Middle East.”

     “You _heard_ that, or you _know_ that, Nick? I thought that you weren’t aware of his background.” Peter appeared skeptical.

     “It was just something that somebody may have said, and I wasn’t sure if they were simply trying to sell me on adopting him,” Neal said hastily. “Look, Peter, you really shouldn’t take the chance—think of Elizabeth’s safety if Bruce happens to be right.”

     Peter let out a frustrated breath, took his cell phone from his pocket, and was promptly connected to the proper people. In the meantime, Elizabeth and Neal started warning people to stay back because of a possible bomb threat. Thankfully, there was no panic in the now sparse crowd. People remained orderly and calm, and cautiously retreated back farther into the park.

     Apparently, an FBI agent’s word had a lot of clout because minutes later sirens were heard, and a steady stream of police cars, hook and ladder fire trucks, and finally a bomb squad armored vehicle raced onto the scene. Even a SWAT team rolled out. With domestic terrorism always in the back of everyone’s mind, threats were taken very seriously and everyone knew their part in the drill.

     The cops, some with their own dogs, sealed off the entrance to the parking lot and began to set up a perimeter with stakes and crime scene tape far back from the cars. They made sure that all the innocent civilians stayed beyond harm’s way. Neal could see the stressful expression on Peter’s face as he talked with the police chief, and he noted the frightened expression on Elizabeth’s as she held onto a whining Lab who sensed the fear in the air.

     Eventually, the head of the bomb squad, a grey-haired man named Captain Reynolds, walked over to Neal.

     “Is that your dog down there, Sir?” he inquired politely.

     “Yes, it is,” Neal confirmed. “He’s never acted this way before, but then, I really haven’t had him for very long.”

     “Agent Burke tells me that he might have been trained in the detection of explosive materials. Is that correct?” Reynolds queried.

     “Maybe—I’m not really sure.” Neal wasn’t ready to be nailed down just yet. He needed to keep some plausible deniability if everything turned out to be bogus.

     Reynolds was using binoculars to observe both the dog and the vehicle.

     “Well, he’s exhibiting the classic stance that the Marines train them to assume when the dog detects ordnance. He’ll hold it until released by his handler. I’ve seen it plenty of times when I was doing my tour of duty in Afghanistan.”

     “I called him and tried to pull him away, but he wouldn’t listen to me,” Neal told the Captain.

     “You are not the handler who trained him, so that’s understandable behavior. We’ll just have to leave that canine Marine in place until we can disarm whatever we find,” Reynolds said definitively.

     The process was a long, delicate, and tedious one. A small robot was dispatched from the Bomb Squad’s vehicle, and it reminded Neal of the little android, R2-D2, from Star Wars as it glided along across the grass. Reynolds had meticulously outfitted himself in bulky protective gear from head to toe, and had ventured a bit closer to the parking lot as he used a small, handheld laptop to control the mechanized machine. As the robot slowly approached Bruce’s side, the animal’s ears twitched toward the source of the meshing gears, but otherwise, his body sustained his rigid posture.

     Everyone was holding their breath as it approached the side of the Taurus. Very gradually, thin metal extensions eased out from near its base. Mirrors were in place at the end of those struts, and very carefully, they inched along the undercarriage of the vehicle. Pictures were flooding onto Reynold’s laptop—muffler, tie rods, drive shaft, and something else that definitely should not be there.

     “We’ve got an affirmative here,” Reynolds spoke into his microphone, “sittin’ up real nice and pretty under the driver’s seat. Somebody really doesn’t seem to like our FBI agent.”

     When that ominous report reached Peter, Neal looked at the agent with his eyebrows raised.

     “It looks as if some milquetoast bank loan officer may be really pissed at you, Peter,” he murmured drolly.

     Peter ignored the sarcastic barb. He was now surrounded by FBI personnel who had turned out in mass, and his immediate superior was there as well. One of their own had been placed in jeopardy, and the Federal band of brothers took that as a personal affront to all of them. The agents were organizing into teams with the local police to interview everyone being detained behind the barricades in the park. Often, perpetrators like to hang around to get an up close and personal view of their handiwork. For once, competitive agencies put personal pride aside and worked together.

     Meanwhile, little R2-D2 was still toiling away at his own task. Neal had heard nearby Bomb Squad personnel refer to the little robot as “The Wheelbarrow.” He had asked a few curious questions and was told that besides being outfitted with cameras, this automaton was equipped with a microphone as well as sensors that could determine if the payload contained chemical, biological, or nuclear agents. The little machine was like a Swiss Army knife with a myriad of different appendages that could be utilized and manipulated by the handler wielding the laptop. That’s what Reynolds was doing right now.

     While the EOD, or “Explosive Ordnance Disposal” expert, jockeyed his joystick, a truck pulled into sight with a trailer hitched to the back. A bathysphere-like circular drum was lowered onto a rolling trolley. This was the bomb containment chamber awaiting its prize if the lethal thing could be safely defused, dislodged, and transported.

     It seemed to take forever, but comments filtered back to the anxious law enforcement officers at ground zero. The suspicious small package contained a significant amount of C-4, a malleable, plastic-like explosive material. Reynolds’ professional opinion was that it could be triggered remotely with something as innocent looking as a cell phone.

     “The Wheelbarrow” toiled relentlessly to disarm the bomb, and to tediously cut away the wire and duct tape that held it in place. Everyone again held their breaths until, eventually, the robot delicately extracted the deceptively small payload, and carefully inserted it into the containment chamber. Bruce had watched the whole little drama play out with intense interest, his head focused on the little white bomb packet. When it had disappeared into the drum, the dog seemed to wilt down into a version of his usual lackadaisical self.

     Reynolds walked over to Peter and his team. He had removed his cumbersome helmet, and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat.

     “These suits have a built in cooling system,” he explained as he greedily gulped a bottle of water that someone had handed him, “but it’s really more theoretical than effectual.”

     After temporarily quenching his thirst, he continued. “We have a couple of our own bomb detection canines on site, so now they’ll take over and inspect every one of the remaining vehicles in the parking lot. When we get the ‘all clear’ signal, we’ll have your car placed on a flatbed and taken to our facilities. I know that you Federal guys want to take point on this, so we’ll let you check for fingerprints, residual DNA, and all the rest of that intricate little stuff. We will take the actual device apart to try to find a signature. We have a database that has a collated list of the hallmarks of every known bomber’s handiwork, and we’ll let you know if we get a hit. In the meantime, another crew from our unit will check your house before you and your wife return. More than likely, that bomb was placed under your vehicle while it was parked right in front of your home.” 

     Neal noted that Elizabeth had started to shiver, but Peter’s face was a study in anger. Neal realized that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that wrath. That’s why anonymity was the benchmark in Neal’s line of work.

     Everyone was so focused on Reynolds that nobody noticed Bruce’s arrival. He had trudged up the hill at his usual sluggish pace. Gone was the steely-eyed speeding bullet of earlier. Now the German Shepherd resignedly sat himself down beside Neal’s left leg and panted.

     When Neal noticed, he immediately crouched, grabbed the dog’s head, and breathed a sigh of relief.

     “Bruce, you are such an idiot,” he scolded as he wrapped the leash around his wrist several times.  

     Elizabeth contradicted him. “No, Nick, Bruce is a hero! He saved our lives.”

     Reynolds simply smiled and tugged affectionately on the dog’s good ear. “This dog is a Marine, Ma’am, through and through. _Semper Fi_ , Buddy!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It took quite a while for everything to get sorted out as early evening approached. Peter was some distance away in deep discussion with his boss and other members of his team. Elizabeth looked forlorn and still a bit rattled as she sat on the grass alternately petting Satchmo and Bruce.

     “Scary, right?” Neal said softly as he sat beside her.

     “Way beyond scary,” she agreed in a timid voice. “You know, Nick, when I married Peter I knew that there would be dangers in his job. But, I naively thought that the threat would be minimized because it was white-collar crime. Is money that important to some people that they are incited to plot another person’s death?”

     Neal didn’t answer because this gentle woman had unknowingly summarized his present life. He was saved from responding when Peter walked over, sat beside his wife, and nestled her against his chest.

     “Well, we can go home now, Hon. Everything is fine in the house. Jones is going to give us a lift, since my car is no longer my own,” he added sadly.

     “Maybe it will be safer for you to use Uber for awhile, Peter,” Neal cautioned. “And try to vary your usual daytime patterns. Don’t make it too easy to be a predictable target.”

     Peter looked at Neal strangely, but didn’t comment. However, Elizabeth had a thought.

     “Nick, we owe Bruce and you our heartfelt thanks. Let us show you a small expression of our gratitude. Why don’t you come to our house for dinner tomorrow evening? Peter can grill, and Bruce is going to enjoy the biggest T-bone steak of his life!”

     “I appreciate that, Elizabeth, I really do,” Neal tried to decline, “but the mutt and I are just happy that everyone is okay. We don’t need a reward.”

     “Please reconsider,” she begged. “They said the house is safe so you don’t have to worry about any harm coming to either of you.”

     “Yeah,” Peter chimed in. “C’mon over around 6 PM. I insist that you let us give you more than a sandwich and a bottle of water like we did today.”

     Neal tried to get a bead on the agent’s sincerity. Had Neal inadvertently overplayed his knowledge about stalkers to the point that Burke was suspicious? He had caught that weird look that had momentarily passed over Peter’s face. But, maybe it would seem too out of character if Neal insisted on staying away. He certainly did not need the FBI’s focus on him right now.

     “Well, okay,” Neal said graciously. “Bruce and I would be honored.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     As “hero” dog and reluctant master made their way down to the Audi, Neal gave Bruce a sardonic look.

     “You’re just full of surprises, Buddy. Unfortunately for you, I guess you’re going to be stuck with me for another day because we’ve got a date tomorrow.”

     The German Shepherd turned his head towards Neal and looked totally unimpressed.


	4. The Guardian Angel

     When Neal and his loaner dog finally reached his apartment, Mozzie had already emptied a half bottle of some expensive Saint Emilion Bordeaux. 

     “So,” the slightly tipsy man said sarcastically as he observed Neal and Bruce, “you two decided to make a day of this little outing?”

     “Actually, Moz, there was a bit of excitement happening in the park today,” Neal answered somewhat mysteriously.

     Then he proceeded to tell his partner the whole, long bomb saga.

     “You should have seen old Bruce in action, Mozzie. It was like an over-the-top reenactment of ‘Lassie bringing help for little Timmy when he fell down the well.’ The cat’s out of the bag now—this dog is goldbricking with his little act. He pretends to be gimpy and worn out only because he gets his jollies pulling the wool over people’s eyes.”

     Mozzie refused to be distracted. “See, Neal, I told you this was a really bad idea. You could have been blown to smithereens just like the Burkes. Back off and let nature take its course, for goodness sake!”

     “No can do, Buddy,” Neal informed his partner. “Bruce the Wonder Dog and I have a dinner invitation tomorrow, and it would be crass of us to disappoint our hosts. In the meantime, try and get a handle on which explosives guy may be in town.”

     Mozzie let his arms flap in frustration. “Listen, Neal, even if I could nail down an identity, what are you thinking of doing—taking the competition out?”

     “Maybe,” Neal answered noncommittally.

     “Neal, just stop and think this through. Perhaps you can neutralize the bomb maker, but there will be others who will follow in his wake—maybe a hitman with a different skill set, like a sniper such as yourself. You cannot keep trying to be one step ahead because you’re working in the dark. Walk away from this now!”

     “Maybe the smart thing would be to take out the kingpin—Andreas Karalis. He’s free on bail, you know,” Neal mused.

     “NEAL!!” Mozzie yelled, causing Bruce to flinch. “Do you even hear yourself? Who appointed you to be Burke’s guardian angel? Quit trying to make him your champion because he seems to fill the idealistic role model for a father that you never had. It’s not healthy or realistic, so STOP!”

     Neal’s eyes suddenly narrowed and he actually looked like the very dangerous man that he really was under the benign college-kid exterior.

     “Just work on getting the names, Moz,” he whispered softly. “And the sooner the better.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Elizabeth made good on her promise about Bruce’s steak. Actually, everyone enjoyed a thick, sizzling piece of meat along with a smorgasbord of delicious side dishes and luscious chocolate cake. Even though there was an undercurrent of tension permeating the air, the couple sought to be entertaining and lighthearted around their guest. Peter initially launched some probing questions Neal’s way that the assassin easily sidestepped with either lies or misdirection. He told them that he had no living relatives and had been on his own for a while, and apparently that seemed to pacify the agent. Peter explained that his own parents were also deceased, but that Elizabeth’s Mom and Dad occasionally visited from out of town.

     “El’s mother is a homemaker and her father is a psychiatrist,” Peter offered.

     “That sounds kind of intimidating,” Neal said innocently.

     “You have no idea,” Peter answered grimly as he rolled his eyes.

     Surprisingly, Peter and Elizabeth laughed together at his words, and the lack of offense on her part seemed to indicate that this discussion had occurred more than once. Neal marveled that they seemed so in tune with each other—so comfortable and supportive, something completely lacking in his world where you trusted no one explicitly because there was always an agenda on the table.

     Eventually, the talk meandered into safer, more mundane areas. Although primarily self-educated, Neal could easily converse on virtually any topic from literature to economics, so the discussions were lively and animated. When it grew chilly, they moved inside to the living room, a comfortable oasis that was homey and personal. Neal suddenly felt as if he were playing a part in some Disney movie where everyone’s world was shiny and hopeful, there was always a moral to the story, and all the characters managed to live happily ever after. However, if Burke wasn’t careful, there would be no happy-ever-after for him.

     When Elizabeth excused herself to make a fresh pot of coffee, Neal used the opportunity to voice the hard facts of Peter’s dilemma.

    “I noticed that you have a protection team sitting on your house, Peter. How long will they be hanging out?”

     “You were able to spot them, Nick? Most people wouldn’t have because my team is very good at what they do,” Peter answered with a frown.

     “Well, I had to park a ways down the block and walk a bit, so maybe that’s why I noticed,” Neal remarked innocuously and then quickly moved on.

     “Has the FBI managed to figure out who wants you dead?”

     “Possibly,” Peter answered noncommittally. “Actually, this whole thing may blow over in a few weeks when a suspected threat is neutralized.”

     “So,” Neal queried, “until that time are you staying home out of harm’s way?”

     “I’m not going to cower in fear, Nick! That’s just not who I am. I’ll be doing my job, and I’ll take precautions like wearing body armor when I have to be out in the open.”

     Neal gleaned a lot from what Peter did not say. More than likely, the agent strongly suspected that Andreas Karalis was behind the attempt on his life, and he was probably still hell bent on poking into that hornet’s nest. Peter also realized that a different method of assault might be coming his way next in the form of a bullet rather than a bomb. Good, Peter, think out of the box and don’t get too complacent about the danger. But, take it from an expert, a really good sniper goes for a clean head shot through the brain, and all the body armor on your chest can’t protect you from that.

     Of course, these were all mute thoughts in Neal’s head that never reached his tongue because he didn’t want to overplay his hand with this really astute FBI agent. Mozzie was right—he needed to walk away.

~~~~~~~~~~

     On Monday, a quiet and respectful Mozzie turned up at Neal’s apartment with a name—Anthony Spivak, a very competent sniper who cut his teeth doing mercenary jobs in Chechnya. Neal was well acquainted with the other assassin’s work. He knew the methods that the man employed and how he set things up to make them happen. That was an advantage.

     “Sorry about the other night,” Neal offered his subdued friend an olive branch.

     “No worries, mon frère,” Mozzie said meekly. “I overstepped my bounds, but that’s only because I care about you, Neal.”

     “I know that, Moz,” Neal admitted as he smiled and quickly changed the subject.

     “Now I think that it’s time that I bid ‘adieu’ to old fur ball and get the inside of my car detailed to erase all traces of his hair, his saliva, and his muddy feet.”

     Neal ambled over to the German Shepherd and gave him a fond pat as Mozzie led him towards the door. 

     “It’s been real, Buddy. Take it easy and don’t overexert yourself.”

     The dog’s sarcastic expression seemed to clearly convey, “That’s so not happening, Dude!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter Burke was a man of his word. He returned to his desk on the 21st floor of the FBI Building the following day. He was more determined than ever to find hard evidence against Andreas Karalis. He even went so far as to contact Interpol for any assistance they could offer to uncover the true details of the refugee extermination. In the meantime, covert members of the FBI shadowed the Greek tycoon and knew his every move. Peter was savvy enough to realize that Karalis would never do his own dirty work. It would come from another direction when least expected. Although Peter had talked a good game to the young Nick Halden, he really was in fear for his life, even if he didn’t show it.

     Peter’s thoughts about Halden were mixed. The amiable young man seemed to be a guileless person who just innocently happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—or, in the right place at the right time, depending on who’s viewpoint you took into consideration. But, there was something about him, and Peter couldn’t put his finger on just what it was. Perhaps, it was simply Peter’s frayed nerves working overtime. Although out of sight right now, Halden was never far from Peter’s mind.

     A week later, Peter was feeling a little more confident since no new threats against his person had materialized. However, progress in obtaining evidence against Karalis had not materialized either. Peter just hoped that the guy would be found guilty next week of the Greek antiquities theft and get some jail time. Peter had set up a meeting with the Federal District Attorney to discuss his testimony for the upcoming trial, and had exited the building to drive to that meeting with the comforting feeling of Kevlar under his shirt. He was just unlocking the door of the Taurus that was recently returned to him when a swiftly moving figure body checked him and he went down hard on the asphalt. Right after he had hit the ground, his head and upper torso were showered with splinters of glass from the driver-side window that had somehow magically exploded above him.

     Suddenly, people were screaming and running for cover as Peter felt a hard arm push down on his back to keep him in place. He managed to raise his head enough to see Nick Halden crouched by his side.

     “Stay down, Peter! You’re less of a target that way. I think the shot may have come from that building across the street, maybe the twentieth floor or so. A sniper would have had an uncompromised sight line from that level.”

     Peter was at a loss for words and just stared at this familiar, yet puzzling, man next to him. He didn’t have a lot of time to parse anything, however, because mounted policemen quickly materialized as well as a stream of FBI personnel from the door Peter had exited just minutes before. Cops with riot shields spilled from squad cars, protectively covering the two pinned-down men before deftly escorting them through those very same doors.

     Later, in the quiet solitude of an interrogation room, Peter did have lots of questions for Nick Halden.

    “It seems that you were in the right place at the right time to save my life yet again, Nick,” Peter said quietly. “Why do you think that keeps happening?”

     “I know that it seems weird, Peter, but don’t look for zebras when you hear hoof beats. I was merely stopping by your office to deliver these theatre tickets for you and Elizabeth.”

     Neal then took a small rectangular envelope from his pocket, holding it by the edges before pushing it across the table in Peter’s direction.

     “You were so incredibly kind to me and Bruce the other day that we wanted to return your graciousness with just a little token of our appreciation. The tickets are for an off-Broadway show, and they aren’t front row or anything. They’re actually in the nosebleed section, but they were the best that I could afford right now.”

     Peter was thoughtful and ignored the envelope. “And just how did you know that a bullet was coming my way at that precise moment, Nick?”

     “Well, when I was walking toward you, I noticed this little red dot moving up your back, and I knew someone had you in their cross hairs. I guess that I just reacted without thinking.”

     Peter wasn’t quite done yet. “Satisfy my curiosity, Nick. How did you arrive at the conclusion that the shooter was across the street on ‘the twentieth floor or so’?”

     Nick shrugged his shoulders innocently. “When we were hugging the ground, I looked up behind me, and I thought that I saw the sun glint off of something shiny. I suppose that I just jumped to the conclusion that it might have been a rifle barrel.”

     Actually, the real truth was Neal had done his homework and had meticulously studied Anthony Spivak’s previous work. He knew the sniper always liked to have his nest perched high above. He wasn’t as good of a marksman as Neal, so he needed to be closer to his target. He also preferred a laser-sighted weapon. It was just a matter of Neal winnowing down the options of when and where it would happen. He knew that agents were still covering Peter’s house, so the most logical time and place would be when he was going to or coming from work in Manhattan.

     A high-rise building across the street from the FBI entrance had its upper floors under construction. During the dark of night, Neal did his recon of those empty suites facing the FBI building and found Spivak’s little bivouac on the 22nd floor. However, the sniper wasn’t there, and Neal didn’t disturb anything that would alert the man. If he suspected that he had been compromised, Spivak would just break camp and go to ground to regroup somewhere else. Neal wanted the advantage of knowing exactly where he was. Neal would just have to foil his attempt when it occurred.

     It became a simple matter of hanging out unobtrusively and watching the movements of Peter Burke around the FBI building. And it so happened that Neal really had spied the small laser dot on the agent’s back, and then reacted accordingly. Now he was forced to talk his way out of a sticky situation. No good deed goes unpunished, and karma was hell!

     Neal finally looked at his FBI interrogator earnestly.

     “Peter, it’s quite obvious that someone wants you dead very badly. You should be scared—really scared. I would be if there was someone coming after me so violently. This person probably won’t stop, so maybe you should do the wisest thing and fold up your tent to depart for an undisclosed location. Ask for a transfer to another department, preferably in another state. You and Elizabeth can start over again. It won’t be easy, but you’ll have each other, and, most importantly, you’ll both be alive.”

     Peter returned Neal’s look just as intently. “Are these simply your words of wisdom, Nick, or are you delivering a message?”

     Neal was the epitome of innocence. “Look Peter, I can assure you that I don’t have a dog in this fight. Now can I go? I don’t want to be late for my job.”

     “Yeah,” Peter answered quietly, “you can leave.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter sat in the silent room for a half hour replaying their conversation. He kept turning the theatre ticket envelope over and over in his hand. His gut was on high alert, and not just from his latest brush with death. Finally, Peter walked out to the bull pen and approached Clinton Jones, his crack technological expert.

     “Jones, find out everything that you can about a young man in his middle to late twenties named Nick or Nicholas Halden.”

     “On it, Boss,” Jones quipped.

     By the end of the day, Peter Burke's suspicions were confirmed and he had his answer. Nick Halden did not exist!


	5. The Ghost

     Peter thought back to all of his interactions with the person who was supposed to be Nick Halden. The guy had been extremely vague about his life, and Peter now knew that was intentional. He had claimed to be from “somewhere” in the Midwest. He said that he had no family, and he also said that he wanted to attend grad school in New York. However, he never told Peter or El where he was presently living or the name of the bar where he supposedly worked. He was as ethereal as a ghost—an unusually knowledgeable and versatile specter with a bomb-detecting dog as a sidekick.

     Peter mentally berated himself for not being more attentive. He could have asked more definitive questions. He could have gotten the license plate number on the silver Audi. Well, he could have done a lot of things differently, but he hadn’t, probably because he had been blindsided and distracted by the attempts on his life. Now it was time to put the FBI’s detection capabilities to the test. The results were less than stellar. After working all day on the problem, Jones reluctantly admitted that Halden’s identity was still a mystery. Here’s what they did know.

     There was no birth certificate on file anywhere for a Nicholas Halden. Likewise, there was no social security number, no passport, no driver’s license, no credit cards, no academic record, and no employment history on file. There was no record of a silver Audi being purchased or leased by a Nicholas Halden in the tri-state area. The theatre tickets had been paid for with cash. It had been impossible to lift his fingerprints from the envelope, and everything that he had touched a week before in Peter’s house had already been dusted, cleaned, or sent through the dishwasher. All they had to go on was a composite drawing that Peter had helped a sketch artist create.

     “Then work the damn dog angle,” Peter said in frustration. “How many German Shepherds can there be with scars on their hips, half an ear, and who answer to the name ‘Bruce’?!”

     Then Peter laughed cynically. Most likely the dog’s name was an alias as well!

     At the end of the day, Reese Hughes walked into Peter’s office, observed the intense paper manhunt in progress, and looked perplexed.

     “Peter, why are you expending all these man hours trying to track down the person who has managed to save your life twice?”

     Peter looked determined. “He’s part of something bigger, Reese, I just know it, but I can’t quite figure out what his role is.”

     “Do you think that he is really a danger to you,” Hughes asked the most obvious question.

     “I don’t know—I just don’t know at this point,” Peter admitted. “But there must be a reason that he is doing what he’s doing, and, most likely, that reason is far from benign. I believe that he has an agenda that only he knows.”

     “Peter,” Hughes cajoled, “you’re overwrought right now, and that’s certainly understandable. The Greek’s trial starts next week, so focus on that. In the meantime, I want you to stay home and not even venture out of your front door to pick up the newspaper. I am doubling the surveillance teams on your house. When it is time for you to make a court appearance, you will be escorted under heavy guard.

     Now go home to Elizabeth! That’s not a suggestion—that’s an order!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     The week of guarded isolation was finally coming to a close for Peter and Elizabeth. In just two days, Andreas Karalis would be standing beside his attorneys on the defendant’s side of the courtroom. Neal knew this was crunch time for Anthony Spivak. If the hired gun wanted his money from his benefactor, he would have to act before the weekend ended. And, Neal would be ready to counter the killer’s best efforts.

     Neal had watched the Burkes’ house for the last five days as diligently as the FBI agents, but he had an advantage—he knew what Spivak looked like; they did not. Thus, when Neal spotted the familiar swarthy man approach the undercover stakeout vehicle containing two agents, he expected the worst. He watched as the brazen assassin stealthily crept around to the side of the car and then riddled the window with ammo from a silenced gun. Faint illumination from a nearby streetlamp showed a windshield displaying a stained glass appearance—with red being the primary color.

     “Messy—very, very messy, Anthony,” Neal thought to himself. “But then, you were never good at up-close-and-personal because you’re a sniper at heart. I get that.”

     After Spivak had inserted another clip, he slunk onto the front porch of the Burkes’ townhouse, quietly jimmying the lock. While he was distracted, Neal quickly made his own way to the small fenced-in backyard. He dispatched, quite handily, the two men on protection detail stationed there —one with a blow to the head from the butt of his gun, and the other with what Neal had come to call his Vulcan Neck Pinch. Both methods would not prove fatal, but actually were quite effectual in the short term. He did his own hasty picking, and had just stepped into the small kitchen when Spivak made a simultaneous appearance through the front door.

     The Chechen was holding Peter and Elizabeth at gunpoint as they sat frozen at their dining room table with eating utensils in their hands. The lethal home invader was meticulously centering his weapon on Peter’s chest when, suddenly, there was a brief “pffft” audible in the room. Peter and his wife had been so focused on the imminent danger in front of them that their minds just could not seem to interpret how the threatening man had suddenly flown backwards, and was now leaking brain matter onto the tiles of their foyer. Perhaps this sorry state of affairs had something to do with the hole in the middle of his forehead.

     Peter was the first to react, quickly swiveling his head around.

     “You!” Was all that he could manage as he stared at a very familiar person clad entirely in black with a silenced Glock in his gloved hand.

     “Nick?” Elizabeth managed to breathe out.

     “That’s not Nick Halden, El. Nick Halden isn’t real. I may not know who he is, but I have a pretty good idea of _what_ he is. He’s an assassin sent here to kill me!”

     “Now Peter, that’s a harsh snap judgment,” Neal admonished. “I think of myself as a soldier of fortune, and perhaps you can think of me as your lucky talisman. Your real would-be assassin is there on the floor making another mess. His name is Anthony Spivak, and unfortunately, he found it necessary to end the two agents who were watching the front of your house. The bullets from his weapon will match up with the ones that the coroner extracts from their bodies.”

     Peter’s head, unconsciously, tilted slightly in the direction of the back door, and Neal caught the motion.

     “Yeah, I know, Peter. You had two more sentries stationed back there, but I didn’t find it necessary to kill them. When they wake up, the only things that they will be suffering are a headache and embarrassment at their lack of attentiveness. Oh, and to allay your other fears, Satchmo is fine. I told him to guard the two men, and he seems to be taking his responsibility very seriously.

      As you may have already guessed, Spivak had accepted a contract killing from none other than the nefarious Andreas Karalis. I tried to tell you to back off, Peter, but you’re hardheaded. Believe me—you’ll never be able to prove that the Greek was behind that refugee massacre. It’s just not happening because Karalis has that little dot of land in the Aegean in his pocket. No one with any sense of self-preservation will utter a word against him.”

     “Are you on his payroll, too?” Peter asked. “Am I the prize, and whoever gets to me first wins? Did you just kill this man to eliminate the competition? After all, you’re still standing in front of me holding a gun in your hand.”

     “You can think whatever you want, Peter, but I would never harm you. That would be tantamount to maiming a unicorn.” Neal responded quietly.

     “Why should I believe you?” Peter wanted to know. “What’s your agenda—what’s the real reason that you keep saving me?”

     “Now’s there’s the question,” Neal said softly. “Certain people have their theories, but sometimes I can’t even figure myself out. But, let us not digress. Stop poking Karalis with sticks. It won’t end well for you because I can’t keep protecting somebody who obviously doesn’t want me protecting him.”

     “I’m a lawman,” Peter stated emphatically. “It’s my job to put bad people behind bars regardless of who they are, how much money or clout they have, or how dangerous they are. I suppose that includes ruthless killers like you, _not-Nick_.”

     “I’m sorry to hear that, Peter. I really am.” Neal really did sound sad.

     “Good luck being a hero, Buddy,” the disappointed young man added. “Maybe they might even award you a medal posthumously, but a piece of tin won’t keep Elizabeth warm at night.”

     _“Get out of my house whoever you are!”_ Peter roared.

     Neal shrugged, moved to the counter, and pulled Peter’s gun from its holster with his gloved hands. He emptied the bullets and ejected the chambered round. Putting the ammo in his pocket, he then slowly walked backwards towards the door and disappeared into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later, Mozzie and Neal were seated at their own table finishing off the last half of the Saint Emilion.

     “You know, Moz, maybe it’s time that I take a firsthand look at that beautiful beach that you have been raving about for years.”

     Mozzie looked at his young friend quizzically. “Does this mean what I think it does, mon frère? Is Mr. Rogers thinking of retiring?”

     “Why not?” Neal said thoughtfully. “We have amassed more money than we can ever spend in either of our lifetimes. So, I think that I’m ready for a change of pace—a quieter, less dangerous life. I’m not really an adrenalin junkie, you know. Maybe I just want to go by my real name. Maybe I want people who know me to call me ‘Neal.’ Maybe I simply want to live to be old.”

     Mozzie was thoughtful as well. “Now don’t bite my head off, but could your decision somehow be connected to this Peter Burke thing?”

     The young man shrugged. “Perhaps. Maybe deep down, what I really want isn’t money or notoriety. Maybe it’s much simpler. I want what Peter has—a surety of purpose, a sense of worth, a valued place in another person’s life, and ….. and pure, unconditional love from that person.”

     “Do you think that what you want really exists, Neal?”

     “Yeah, it does, Moz. I’ve seen it. So, make all the arrangements for our ‘au revoir’ to the life. I’ll be ready to go on Monday after I take care of a little errand.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It was Monday morning, the first day of Karalis’ trial, and Peter was fussing with the knot on his lucky tie. He was standing in front of the mirror atop the fireplace, and even in the wavy glass, it wasn’t hard to see the stress lines that bracketed his eyes and mouth. Suddenly, El’s small hands were smoothing out the kinks in the silk. Peter felt such guilt when he saw the worry on her face as well.

     El stared up at her husband with sincerity and affection in her deep blue eyes.

     “I love you, Peter Burke. You’re a good man and don’t ever forget that.”

     The angst of the moment quickly passed, broken by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Peter answered the electronic summons and seemed mystified at first, but then ended the call abruptly.

     “Thank you for updating me,” was all that he said.

     “Hon?” El asked with just that one word.

     “That was the Federal District Attorney. It seems that they don’t need my testimony today—or ever, actually. Someone—apparently a sniper—managed to put a bullet through Karalis’ forehead as he was walking up the steps to the courthouse. The police have no leads at this time. They claim that the perpetrator is like a ghost. He just disappeared into thin air.”


End file.
